


Five times Crowley wore gloves and one time he didn't

by Anterosia (PassionsPotions)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1, Domestic, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley, Gloves, Hands, Historical References, M/M, Tender - Freeform, but so does aziraphale so it's fine, i think about crowley and gloves constantly, i'm back to writing after a long time and it feels pretty good, i'm totally not writing this to avoid my responsibilities what do you mean, ineffable husbands, they really love each other so much and it's so soft, this is gonna be so sweet when it's done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27759562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PassionsPotions/pseuds/Anterosia
Summary: Throughout the time they've been together, Aziraphale and Crowley rarely touched each other without a specific reason. When they did, it was most often their hands accidentally brushing. This time, Crowley feels emboldened by wearing gloves and touches Aziraphale purposefully. What ensues is tender and warm and all the things that go well with a hot chocolate.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. 1054, The Great Schism

**Author's Note:**

> So I should definitely be writing a philosophy essay right now but I really really wanted to get back into writing fanfiction and I discovered this story in my drafts. The first part was almost finished, so if you will notice a tone shift in the following chapters it was because there's more than a year between them. I hope you enjoy reading this story!

At a beautiful carved table, a demon sat. He wasn’t really your average demon by any stretch of the imagination. On this particular day, this particular demon was doing very tricky work, which involved quite a lot of cussing in very creative manners. After cutting up the finest of leathers, he was now sewing the pieces together, following the pattern of long, bony fingers. It was the last piece of his armour of righteousness and he’ll be blessed if it isn’t going to be just as good as the rest. 

This wasn’t exactly your average armour. It wasn’t made to protect so much as to attract attention to him, hugging his sharp angles flatteringly. This was meant to convey a very important message: “You can trust me. I am somebody’s messenger”. As he was heading to a really important church official, the fact that his employer was Satan needn’t be mentioned. 

His skin prickled with anticipation at what might be. This was a direct order from Below, the first signs of trust from the untrustworthy ever since he showed that carpenter the kingdoms of the world. He stared at his mirror but his vision was fogged by a cloud of doubt. “If this goes wrong…” he thought, “my leather armour will be the least of my worries”.

Combat-ready leather boots could be heard clacking on the ivory steps of the church. Crowley took his time admiring the paintings depicting various religious figures (all of whom, Crowley could tell you, were right bastards*), and traced his fingers on the golden foil. How was this not considered vain? Maybe vanity wasn’t a sin when the one above approved. He marched on.

Urgent murmurs could be heard from the main room, slithering their way into the halls, where the flaming-haired demon listened.

“You can not do this. Do not disobey Her, or you will face her punishment.” a level voice said. Could that be…?

“I won’t tolerate your nonsense any longer. Enough. Either you prove that you are speaking in the name of God, or you will leave me alone.” That voice he recognized. Leo IX, the man he had come to tempt, was apparently getting angry at his visitor.

“Foolish man, do not do this to yourself. You have one chance to redeem yourself, and you question Her messengers?” it was, indeed, what he had feared. Aziraphale, his supposed enemy, was here to right what he was sent to skew.

The human race, Crowley could tell you, had two simple constants. One, that they will always seek knowledge, and two, that when acquiring said knowledge, they will thoroughly ignore it if it does not conform to their goals. 

“I said ENOUGH!”

The sound of a vase breaking. He felt the slight shift in the air, the tell of a miracle, angelic or demonic. If he had been another demon, his sense of self-preservation would’ve told him to leave and come back on another day. Being Crowley, a demon to whom the very notion of preserving himself seemed strange at best, he chose that very moment to step in.

“Good day, gentlemen.”, a smooth voice said

Aziraphale’s eyes widened quite a bit more than strictly necessary, considering he must’ve felt Crowley’s presence already. Leo looked at him coolly, and nodded.

“I think your audience is over, isn’t it?” he smiled cruelly, a practised act. “His Holiness and I have a lot to discuss.”

Aziraphale glanced at him, and he could see the hurt in his eyes, could feel his real form curling in on itself and hiding from the world, from him. Something shifted unpleasantly in his stomach, and some might even say it was his conscience, even though he would deny that he has one to his dying day (which, considering it would only happen via holy water or Armaggedon, was quite a long way away). He straightened his clothes and left, and Crowley could admit, if only to himself, that he would’ve liked if he stayed. On to business, then.

Convincing the pope that splitting the church was “a marvelous idea, really” hadn’t been hard at all. Privately, Crowley thought him a fool and while talking to him he understood why Pride was one of The Big Ones. This man could be convinced to do absolutely anything if it meant he was defying someone’s orders, or even Someone’s orders. After finishing his deed, he went on a walk around Rome, which obviously didn’t have the purpose of finding Aziraphale.

Which is why when he accidentally bumped into him in one of his favourite restaurants, Crowley was very surprised.

“Crowley? Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, getting the demon’s attention. Crowley sat next to him, keeping his knees together and his back straight.

“This man is ridiculous!” the angel said, pouring himself another glass of fine wine. Crowley watched him do it and hummed in agreement. He wasn’t going to add anything to this conversation, mostly because he didn’t come all this way to hear Aziraphale talk about some priest. He had come to test a theory.

Curiosity in angels is considered a very, very bad thing. After all, you can’t have a Perfect, Ineffable Plan that has contradictions or errors. And when such imperfections were discovered, the angel that brought them up was found in a pit of boiling sulphur. Crowley would know.

Hell and Heaven, he could tell you, were not that dissimilar, once you got past the appearances. So when Crowley asked questions, he was shut away. He then decided to get his answers like the humans did. Through experiments.

Aziraphale touched Crowley once. They were eating lovely food and got talking about the more obscure details of a human’s anatomy, which would later impress the doctors of their time.

“And you see, the most amazing thing about them is their hands” Aziraphale said

“Oh, really? Do tell me why.” Crowley retorted, not because he didn’t understand the miracle of Her creations, specifically of humans, but because the sun was shining brightly and bounced just right off of his angel’s white curls and his eyes were crinkling because of his smile and Crowley loved listening to him talk. 

“You see, they have opposable thumbs, like so” Aziraphale demonstrated the concept, and the leather-clad demon barely suppressed his grin. “And so many nerve endings!” he traced a pale finger across the demon’s skin.

In that moment, Crowley burned. He burned with unsaid words and heavy feelings, with doubts and, he said to himself, holiness. Holiness must’ve been why his skin prickled, why every one of said nerve endings was aching. “He’s too holy for me”, he thought, and tears welled up in his eyes which he blinked back forcefully. Aziraphale had long since put his hands back in his lap and continued explaining something or another about how humans will have quite the shock when discovering their cells. 

Today, there was no discussion about human anatomy. Aziraphale drank his wine and Crowley his mead in silence. Crowley quickly discovered that the material of the goblet and his leather gloves were not a pleasant combination, making him grunt in displeasure. His drinking companion stole just a few quick glances at him, making sure he was alright. Crowley had a quite terrible habit of hiding any wounds which made Aziraphale use miracles to find them on several occasions. This time, though, Aziraphale knew that it was just surprise at the bothersome experience of having a human body. That being said, he still needed to ask him.

“Is anything wrong, dear?”, Aziraphale asked, licking his lips to taste the last drops of wine** 

“No, just this blessed metal rubbing me up the wrong way. The gloves don’t seem to help”

“I want to see them, they look absolutely lovely”

Crowley stretched out a trembling hand, which was grabbed by Aziraphale’s cold, smooth one. In the back of Crowley’s head the angel’s voice could only be heard as if from underwater, every wave of sound caressing his skin, making a dent in his flesh, wrapping around him like a lasso. But it wasn’t like the last time. His skin didn’t burn. He was protected, he was safe. Free to touch.

“You serpent! Of course you would get another layer of skin (someone else’s, may I add!) to cover yourself.” Aziraphale tried to fill the silence, slowly tracing circles with his thumb on Crowley’s skin. Or rather, the skin of a deer that he found dead in a forest and who is in a much better place now. There wasn’t really any bite to his scolding, with a soft smile streching the corners of his mouth. Crowley turned their hands around so that Aziraphale’s were the ones being inspected.

“Said the angel with a collection of rings. What, do you think I didn’t notice?” he said, as he was met with Aziraphale’s indignation. Of course, rings weren’t the same as gloves, and if he were honest with himself (which he never is) he would recognize that he was only making this observation to hold his hand for longer. If you squinted, you would see that neither of them had fixed fingerprints. That was because they had to will them into existence, and they really couldn’t be bothered to; except for now, when Aziraphale was giving himself some fingerprints that he hoped would be pleasant to touch. After twisting each ring in its place and making various witty observations about them and “Oh, how very Roman of you. Did you forget that time you were Socrates’s best friend or did you will yourself to forget?” and little smirks he gave to the angel without a second thought, he had to slowly let go of his hand. He liked wearing gloves. They made him feel as if, clad in expensive material as they were, his hands were worthy of touching Aziraphale’s.

Footnotes:

*except, of course, for Jesus, who was alright, really, and that one cherub that gave him quite the nice orchids once

**the monks had had a wonderful production fifty years ago, and they were more than willing to give him a few cases - miraculously, whenever he went to a bar they always had one of the bottles in those cases in stock


	2. #2 - 1560: Pope Pius IV begins his papacy , 1587: Mary, Queen of Scots is executed by Elizabeth I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets in a bit of trouble with the Queen, and a certain demon comes to the rescue with a plan as mad as it is effective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the second chapter, published almost entirely due to the lovely comment left by Ronsuinen on the last chapter. Thank you so much! I've taken.... a lot of liberties with the time period, but here we are. I managed to do the linked footnotes! Yay me

After spilling rivers of blood, Rome had chosen her leader once again. Pope Pius IV showed mercy to those who participated in the uprisings, but he made it clear that he was the one that had been elected to be at Her side. It was a nice day to be a demon in Rome, and a nicer one to cause some problems. 

Crowley would tell you, if you asked, that sumptuary laws were one of the most absurd things ever to be invented. Everyone pretended that they were made to keep the citizens humble, but the only citizens they kept humble were already humble enough. Poor people were never allowed to have nice things. 

Seeing as he mostly pretended to be a normal person wherever he went, this was quite annoying. He wanted to teach these people a lesson about forbidding him from wearing what he wanted. The most recent sumptuary law that had been passed concerned perfumed gloves, which he simply couldn’t live without. It was only logical, then, that he would go out and buy the most expensive perfume he could find and drench his gloves in it for a considerable time.

These gloves were so dark that you could almost see an aura of grey around them where they sucked in the light, perfectly matching the rest of Crowley’s usual outfits. They were embroidered with an intricate and repetitive pattern, which in certain places looked almost made for a ritual of some sort. The perfume was reminiscent of the deep parts of the woods, where trees have a slightly damp feel and flowers barely grow, where breathing becomes harder and harder the more you realize you are trapped.[1] Crowley started wearing these around town, exuding such a menacing energy that whenever people wanted to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to do what he was doing, they thought better of it and just went about their business. On the few memorable occasions where he had a brush-up with the guards, he didn’t hesitate to show them a few tricks that convinced them quite thoroughly to leave him alone. He wore them until they started showing holes, and then he got another identical pair. 

Aziraphale didn’t rebel in the same way that Crowley did, and he preferred being a member of the upper class. For him it was a simple choice, and he always made sure to pay off the painters at the court, lest he be caught a hundred years from now for looking too similar to an important member of Elizabethan society. Whenever he had to fill the reports for reputation expenses[2], he claimed that it was better for him to be close to the Queen, so he could advise her when need be and make sure that England remained a morally upstanding Christian nation, even after its little splash with the Pope. Part of being at the court was dressing in the most expensive fabrics, with as many intricate details as possible. Gloves were a big hit at the time, a trend started by the Queen herself to show off her delicate hands. Men and women were racing to have the most expensive and dainty gloves, with some spending fortunes for them. Fortunately for Aziraphale, spending fortunes had never been a problem, so he decided to distinguish himself from others with a pure white set with hundreds of precious gems set in it. It was just short of having a pair that was more beautiful than that of the Queen, and he liked it that way. Even after receiving a new body, a discorporation by beheading still left you sore.

Speaking of which, a very nice young lady, coincidentally a cousin of the Queen’s and she herself a Queen, was going to be beheaded within the next week. At first, he had helped her, not being a particular fan of the protestants. Some would say it was characteristic of the angels that stayed to not like humans who rebelled against a spiritual leader. Nonetheless, he saw the pain and anger of English Catholics and thought that he might as well try to help Mary with her plan. She ended up being caught, and with her already precarious position this was an inexcusable offence. What he was more scared of the fact that he might be imprisoned too, and would need help getting out. None of the angels he knew were around, and he had already started to lose the respect of his friends at the royal court. As a last-ditch effort, he sent a message to the Pope, saying that he tried to protect the Catholic faith and that he was now in a tough spot.

The Pope considered sending a regular envoy to the Queen, but he quickly realised that she wouldn’t be very impressed by that, considering that she was willing to sacrifice her cousin to the greater plan. Instead, he needed someone that could operate undercover. Someone that could use their abilities to break a highly-guarded person out of prison if needed. Suddenly, the peasant with gloves sprung to mind. He wouldn’t be noticed, and he seemed to be good at breaking laws and intimidating guards. He asked for him, and Crowley came, on the condition of meeting outside his usual place of residency. The ground held much less divine energy than the floors inside. 

The Pope went outside at the established hour and… waited. And he waited some more. The Pope, the most powerful Christian man, was being left to wait by a peasant. Suddenly, he felt the unmistakable odour of said peasant and prayed to God for the drop of patience needed to send him on his way. God, as kind as ever, gave him just enough not to be sent into a frenzy at the sight of the demon. He was wearing the most outrageous outfit the man had seen, and certainly one which showed an inappropriate amount of pale skin (weren’t peasants supposed to be tan?). Regardless, he described the situation hurriedly, and told the demon that if he would not go to England he would be thrown in prison himself. 

For his part, Crowley’s hearing got instantly distorted the minute he heard that he had to save one gentleman named A. Raphael from fairly certain death (or, as he knew it to be, discorporation). Already his mind was spinning and trying to search for the reasons that the angel may have gotten himself in a bit of a knot, but his next thought was that he had to use this opportunity for all it was worth. He had always been known for being quite the cunning fallen angel.

“So, will I be pardoned for all my offences?”

It must be stressed that the word “offences” had never been uttered with such contempt by a demon before, and he had a downright sour expression.

The Pope’s face was twitching. He had expected this.

“Yes, you will be.” he said, flatly

“And will I also get a better house? Mine is almost falling over my head. Make it a year of free food as well” he knew he was pushing his luck, but the idea of prison or death seemed far removed from him, so he felt like he had nothing to fear.

“I believe…” here, Crowley wished very wickedly, but it’s well known that wicked wishes don’t work on Popes if there isn’t just a small part of them that wishes wickedly as well “... that we may be able to do that. But only if you do what you have to do and nobody finds out.”

This was all the confirmation he needed. He knew that they would do anything he wanted as long as he took the next steps carefully. First order of business, dress to impress.

Well, it was more dress to blend in with an aristocratic, fancy group of people, which amounted to the same thing. He got himself some clothes and some more perfume with the Holy Money[3], packed his things and embarked on a journey that was as mad as it was quick. Considering he hadn’t been appearing here and there very quickly in a long time, he might have taken longer than the guy that was ruthlessly pushing the horses, only stopping at night. He wondered how he survived on barely any food at all and, without letting it be known that it was his doing, he gave him some filling food whenever he was at his hungriest. Of course, this was all in the interest of him not falling over from starvation, which would’ve left Crowley in a very unpleasant situation indeed. 

After arriving on the island (going through a boat journey he wishes to never experience again) he set out to find A. Raphael, or, as he most commonly called him, the angel. He knew from his earthly contractor (his non-earthly contractor was told that he was only doing this to gain the Pope’s trust and eventually make him turn away from the Lady, a plan which had been met with roaring approval) that he would most likely be at his residence, a beautiful mansion, commissioned by the Queen for one of her favourite servants. 

Crowley was not feeling up to using miracles today, because his seasickness hadn’t yet gone away. Normally he would be able just not feel it at all, but the Catholic coachman was as scared on the sea as he was brave on land, and made countless cross signs right next to him for the entire journey. So he was now forced to extend his hand to catch a carriage. Right as he was starting to lose his temper he saw a grand white carriage passing through, and felt the all-too familiar angelic light seeping through his invisible scales.

“Sir Raphael! Sir Raphael!” he yelled, hoping that he would be heard. And indeed he was, because Aziraphale turned to him and stopped the carriage.

“Crowley? Whatever are you doing here?” he asked, while opening the carriage door. And call it seasickness or crosssickness (word whose impressive number of s’s pleased Crowley deeply) or whatever you will, the fact that the angel opened the door as if he didn’t think about it at all, as if it was only natural, made Crowley’s stomach twist quite ridiculously. 

He quickly got up and inside, and was delighted to tell sir A. Raphael, currently on trial, that he was here to get him out of his sticky situation. For this, he had the kind of plan that only works when no one bothers sending messages to Italy except in cases of war or famine. As he explained the plan, Aziraphale’s face flitted from confused, to embarrassed, to outright laughing at the end. If he had learned anything about Crowley, it’s that he didn’t go halfway with his plans. 

Aziraphale talked to his servants and arranged everything, using a few miracles here and there for good measure and necessary forgetfulness, while Crowley was getting a dress tailored (she was keeping the gloves, of course) and shopping for some rings. There was a soirée happening at 8 and they were damn (or bless) sure not going to miss this one. In their beautiful outfits, with gloves to match, they went to their carriage. 

As they entered, the crowd of aristocrats was flowing in and out of rooms. Faint music could be heard, with a sound like a thread that reels one in, especially if one is very fond of the Queen’s band. Most were avoiding sir Raphael, but him and Crowley were sticking together and trying to find the Queen. To talk directly to her in his disgraced state would’ve been impossible, but he had to know where she was for the next part of their plan. She was talking to her favourite courtiers and standing somewhere near the dancing couples. It was the perfect moment for Aziraphale to whisper something in a servant’s ear and quickly go to a clear spot in the room, where he gently took Crowley’s hand in his and prepared for a waltz. As the first notes started, the servant said, although barely understanding it himself: “Their graces, Duke and Duchess of Connaught and Strathearn”. Suddenly there was silence as everyone looked at the rings on their hands, beautiful and simple golden bands with carvings that were for one a serpent and for the other wings. 

The waltz started sweet and slow as Aziraphale was just beginning to grasp the terribly grand nature of what he was doing. Yes, he was trying to evade a royal execution by highly dubious means, which involved pretending to be married to a demon, but more importantly, Crowley’s hand was in his. He could smell the perfume of her gloves, and it felt like entering the palace for the first time. It was dauntingly beautiful, and so delicate that he felt he could break it with a breath. He revelled in the sensation as they shifted their hands. It was said that angels and demons couldn’t dance, but they were neither, and today they were gliding across the floor as the musicians sweetened their tune to their steps. Metal on metal. What would it feel like, to exchange those rings with true intent? They were married, this much they knew from the certificate issued by a church just this evening, and dated a few decades ago, but what would it be like to see this ring on Crowley’s ungloved hands? The tips of their gloves rubbed together as they waltzed on.

They felt the burning gaze of all the royals, including the Queen herself, but it was impossible to stop. It was as if their feet were following an ancient ritual, they were slipping around as they did in Eden so many years ago when they danced around their words, the first of their many human mistakes. A lift of a wing, holding a perfumed hand. Humans put too much value on words, and they were neither angel nor demon now. If she would only tell me.

Finally, the song ended, and the room grew painfully silent. He approached the Queen and introduced his wife of many years, whom he had kept a secret from the court for fear that they would ruin her perfect innocence. Her black clothes symbolised her coming mourning if he would be imprisoned or beheaded. He begged for the Queen’s forgiveness, and told her that if she only spares him for his wife’s sake he would be a lucky man. The rest of the evening was spent with the Queen questioning Crowley about their relationship, and Crowley proved to be the modest and refined conversation partner that she had waited for. Still, sir Raphael had committed treason, and she couldn’t just brush that away. 

At the end of the night, the Queen told them that she would let him go, if and only if he would leave with his wife at once, as painful as it was to her to lose such a lovely young lady after having just met her. With great sorrow they accepted, bowing their heads and leaving. 

In the carriage, Aziraphale started laughing, in which Crowley joined him heartily

“Did you think that would work? They were all so astonished!” said Aziraphale, beginning to unbutton his jacket

“It is honestly quite the miracle that we did it, angel. I reserve my right to keep this dress though, I think it may come in handy for certain dealings of mine.” said Crowley with a soft smile, while looking at her ring carefully and twisting it

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The jeweller knew just what to do to make them perfect.”

“Would you mind if I kept it?” Crowley said suddenly and as if she was in a rush

“What did you say, dear?”

“I said, would you mind terribly if I held onto it? That is, in case you don’t want to add it to your own ring collection” she added, looking now in Aziraphale’s befuddled face

“Why of course not! Of course, you can keep it. It’s the least I can do. And, after all, I think I like it better on your hands” he said, covering her left hand gently for a brief moment, and looking earnestly in her eyes.

Over the years, the ring was lost and then found again in a very interesting place, but that is a story for another day.[4] An unheadless angel and his demon parted ways, but not for long, and their rings were thought about often, as was their dance

End notes:

1The perfume was called no 23 [return to text]  
2The background stories and reputations of angels were all written off as business expenses, and when you’re in the spotlight more than others you tend to use reputation points to repair any small mishap, which adds up[return to text]  
3This was just an affectionate name for the money the Pope gave him, but it had no specific holiness attached, as far as he knew[return to text]

4Which had a bit to do with Crowley’s dress dealings[return to text]


End file.
